Choice
by Salome Maranya
Summary: Love has no place in their world, that seemed true enough. XanxusxOC
1. Rescue

DISCLAIMER: I do not own KHR (otherwise the Varia would have more screentime). It belongs to Amano Akira, those people who animated it, etc. Feel free to name them all.

This is intended to be a XanxusxOC fic.

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CHAPTER 1: Rescue

"Timoteo, probability of the child's lineage stemming from the Fourth's…is more or less seventy percent." The Vongola Ninth stayed in his pensive façade as he had done for the past forty minutes, betraying no emotion and hinting only a few nods here and there as his right hand man relayed the Cloud guardian's report. "Should this warrant our action?"

They would not have gathered in such an uncalled for manner if it weren't for that particular news. It would not have been a big deal if any of his sons were alive to take the helm after his retirement. But no. A year had already passed since Federico, his youngest son, had been murdered. Only his resolve salvaged his sanity to keep moving forth despite the grief that threatened to overwhelm him.

At that juncture, he convened with his Guardians, discussing about a prospective heir in the hands of their enemies. His most trusted colleagues tactfully avoided mentioning anything about his sons, but were not sure what to say either, resulting in a heavy silence with all eyes centered on the boss. He wasn't sure he could take on another all-out mafia war like he did in his prime. Age was catching up and soon he'll be following his sons wherever their kind deserved to end up in. He needed a successor yet his intuition was telling him the child could be all but his heir.

Still, they had to try.

"B-but, Ninth!" Ganauche III, his Lightning Guardian, protested. "We cannot be too sure…what if…like last time…" Pressing on would end up in sour recounting of Enrico's death by ambush so he stopped.

"Nevertheless we cannot be too suspicious," said the Mist Guardian, his first uttered words since the start of the meeting.

"I would have disagreed too, Ganauche…but these are desperate times. We take all risks into consideration."

"Very well. Convey to Visconti that I trust the operation to be a success." The bereaved Vongola boss brought his hands together, crossed fingers concealing part of his face. "This time", he added, "not one drop of Vongola blood will be shed."

No one need respond. The meeting was adjourned.

Someone should have told Visconti as well that he wasn't allowed to get sick.

He never fails. That was for sure. But he wasn't so sure about his upstart pubescent son who was to lead in his place. Try as he might to refute the effects of old age, he simply cannot participate in large scale raids and other stealthy or stressing operations anymore. Especially when accursed flus come knocking.

Damn it.

If curses could reverse time, he would be back in the good ol' days, obliterating enemies like child's play. This was not to say he was getting useless. He could still, in colloquial terms, kick serious ass, just not right now. "Alfredo," he said after a fit of coughing. What an ill-fortuned coming of sickness, he thought bitterly. Is this a test on whether he will be bound by some mere flu as a Cloud Guardian? "Boy, pay attention!"

The person called for can hardly be classified a boy. "Papa, I'm 18 for goodness' sake," he sighed in reply, "Like I said, everything's prepared. I've been checking all the stuff like clockwork since last week!"

The father gruffly sighed. "Fine. Remember that Timoteo will not take failure easily this time," he said, as if pouring salt on fresh wound. The young man did not retort anything back. Almost unconsciously his fists clenched. Was that implied reprimand meant to make him perform _better_? Who were they kidding, if the heir who practically beat him at everything couldn't take it; then how the hell could have he changed anything? He would have given up anything…anything…just for his friend to live.

Maybe he should have died there instead of Federico, was what he wanted to snap back, but held it in. Though he may very well admit himself a prick, he loved his father and worried that it might worsen his condition. Plus, if by any chance he gets killed, he wouldn't want to regret saying that last. From his mouth came two words, both a literal answer and an affirmation of resolve.

"I know."

This mission will be flawless.

Things weren't only tense among the Vongola's circles. It was as if the whole of Sicily had been devoured by shadows of ill will; especially, of course, the family that caught the Alliance's attention.

"Okay, Im'ma give you one last chance, kid." Gaspare's patience was wearing thin. Not that it was ever that much extendable. The girl was unfortunate to be interrogated by him. "Where the hell did you go last week!?" Upon receiving the silent treatment, a loud slap echoed in the cellar. The sound of chains disturbed in their dormancy joined the curses and threats of the interrogator.

It hurt. Her cheeks stung of the hit and the shackles were too tight. Maybe if they didn't push her around too much, she would have learned to put up with them for a little longer. No, she'll have no more of this crap. Had she acted earlier, circumstances would have been less urgent and there would be no assurance of what's to come next.

The Vongola will discover one time or another and she'd be used as they pleased; better she took advantage of them while she could before the system swallowed her whole. If her hands were free, she thought about patting herself on the shoulder for a job well done. She would be saved and she even needn't do anything except play a distressed damsel part. That she could perform well, the state she was in right now.

A searing hot pain burned so very near her eyes. They must be really alarmed by the threat of the Vongola that they had advanced to using knives with her. Blood trickled out of the slash, multiplying the sting of the previous injuries as it oozed down her face.

Out of the corner of her good eye, she caught sight of a gleam of silver. Then it came. The deafening explosions and gunshots, and voices that sought to be heard amidst the chaos. The knife dropped with a loud clang. "You…you traitor!" bellowed the man. Her eyes widened as he pointed a .45 pistol point blank on her face. "Now talk! What did you do!?"

"...nothing really." _Click. _Her heart thumped fast.

Damn, it should have been easy to burst forth with a witty comeback. All of them are idiots anyway, a cruel joke of the Creator on the decent-living.

Disgusting. Disgusting. Disgusting.

Yet she remained silent. So why should she? Because she didn't have a death wish, she used to think. She had lost count of people who died because of letting slip a secret, executed for admitting a mistake, killed for speaking out of turn.

Fear would never completely disappear, no matter how bright and powerful the façade. But now she wasn't _entirely_ afraid. So-

Nothing. There was mostly nothing. Actually, if the Vongola decided to ignore her existence she wouldn't mind it very much…maybe. "I-"

Her guts felt as if they were wrenched complicated sewer tubes. This would be a very good time for an entrance, Vongola.

"Die!" In a matter of milliseconds, Gaspare will pull the trigger and it will end. He was never a patient man anyway and she never made any significant attempt to befriend him or any of them for that matter. The only effort exerted was for her to live, to which she had barely succeeded.

_BAM_.

The door flew off its hinges, knocking the interrogator out with it. In a mishmash of explosions, bullets, debris she could hear voices of unfamiliar people.

He couldn't believe his eyes. That small, frilly dress clad kid would be the heir? "Impossible," he muttered. She was a mess. The girl'd probably kick the bucket any moment now. _Not one drop of blood spilled. _That triggered back his focus. "Dom, cover for me!"

"Yes, sir!"

Alfredo rushed. "Oi, kid. You alright?" He cursed upon seeing that some of the cuts ran pretty deep, which meant loss of blood and possible doom. Mainly for him. He easily scooped her small form and ran out. "C'mon…"

As she was drifting to oblivion, she made out a figure coming up to her after shouting to someone Dam…or cursing damn… This was a stranger. More often than not strangers meant instant candidate enemies. Somehow though, a feeling of safety flooded her mind. How and why she knew she didn't know. She felt her whole body relax. Maybe she was really afraid of dying.

For three days, the girl recuperated in Visconti's home. It wasn't anything fancy. In fact, it could be just any other middle-class family house but one that shelters some of the most infamous figures in the underworld.

"Papa-"

"No, Alfredo. You have done well." The ninth generation Cloud Guardian recovered fast. Now the son looked sicker than his father was some days before. "Timoteo congratulates you."

He shouldn't be going all sugary on him. "She hasn't even awakened yet. And the Ninth didn't want another drop spilled…he was just…I know he's just too…" Soft? "Che, whatever."

Visconti ruffled his son's hair, "Your mother would have pinched your ear for not comprehending the metaphor, boy. Cut yourself some slack."

Sigh. "I'll do that after she wakes up."

"Then it will all the more be hectic."

"I don't really care anymore, Pops." He heaved himself back on the couch beside the bed. "Look at her. She's what, seven years old, and already to be pressured to do something she might not want. On closer inspection, she doesn't even look Italian to me." That earned him a knuckle hit on the side of the head.

"Of course she doesn't. I believe you told me you checked every single detail."

"Ouch!" He rubbed his head, annoyed. "That was the _operation_ details, not some specifics on this personification of frailty." Yup, he, Visconti, Ninth Generation Cloud Guardian, prays solemnly every night for the merciful Lord not to take him away yet for the sake of his family. His son still has much much more to learn.

"Trust me, Pops, I don't want another death on my head. This gal better be off to the Vongola Main the moment her eyebrows twitch." He wanted to tell his son that he was too young and inexperienced to have saved his friend and should burden befall him, it should be the grief of a lost friend not guilt or regret over surviving.

Two days later, Don Timoteo appointed Alfredo Falzone bodyguard to the rescued girl.

His favorite shirt had never been so vilely desecrated with wine…and steak…and sauce. Oh yeah, and his spit.

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A/N: So...should I push forth with this? :)

Visconti is Timoteo's cloud guardian. I got him a surname, Falzone, just because. Alfredo is someone I made up. He's supposed to be Visconti's son who was friends with Federico. C'mon, don't pretend you don't know Federico.


	2. Encounter

DISCLAIMER: KHR belongs to its rightful owners, unfortunately that doesn't include me.

This happens around half a year (more or less) after the rescue.

Mire: 8 years old  
Xanxus: 10 years old

Yup, they're that young even though they don't act like it.

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CHAPTER 2: Encounter

"Shit, this is boring."

He and his mother had lived in this poverty-stricken Sicilian suburb for as long as he could remember. Every single day, try as he might to obliterate the monotony of his life – he had over fifty routes from home to school and back, he had dealt with the kids who pretended to be the lieges in their area, even thugs failed to spark the slightest hint of fear now – boredom reigned supreme. He walked home, steps lethargic and measured.

The only person who obviously cared for him, his mamma, will be working till the evening as always. Recently though, he felt that something was wrong with her. Of course, no one would catch him say it out loud, but somehow he just knew. Ever since she discovered about that fire ball. His fists clenched in displeasure, kicking invisible stones and clouds of dust as he strode. There's got to be something more in store for him. Somehow, he simply felt that. But instead of bringing relief, it simply fueled his vexation. How frustrating! His mother kept blabbering about a mafia boss who was supposedly his father.

Enough. He had enough of the charades. Sometimes it was easier to think that he had no such parent. Yeah, some alien went down and did his mother like a freak miracle. Che, maybe that would explain his red eyes too.

Fucking. Figures.

Then in one glance all his mental soliloquy vanished as he reached a secluded thug-infested backstreet. Or at least it used to be one. Blood. Blood everywhere. Blood stains on the pavement, blood oozing from broken human bodies, blood on the dress and weapon of a girl who stood in the middle of the chaos.

His heartbeat raced fast. This feeling… perhaps the prolonged tediousness caused him to forget. But this was different. Boredom was out of the question.

"Oi!" he called after the girl wielding a blade, only after she turned to face him that he realized the long bloodstained chain dangling from it. She looked at him, blinking as if recently awoken from sleep then wiped her bleeding lips with the back of her hand. Her work was done. "Who're you?" he asked.

The girl tilted her head and smiled in a way that did not reach her eyes. He could see that those orbs could match the peculiarity of his. They glinted as a ray of sun reached her face. "You're strong aren't you? I can tell."

He sneered. "Naturally!" He prepared to spark his flame. "Want a taste of it?" The girl sheathed her blade but took on what supposedly was a fighting stance. A smirk tugged on his lips and a nod on her part responded in turn.

Then in an instant they were exchanging blows. He grabbed the lengthy wave of hair that grew to her back and punched, a move blocked by arms crossed over her face. She spun around, chain swinging along precariously, and forced him to let go. A gasp escapes him almost immediately by a kneed blow on his guts. The boy recovered quickly though, "Not bad for a brat," he said, distracting her with a feint kick and settling with a forceful head butt. Her auburn strands slapped his face as she twirled, then returned attack. A split second hesitation did not miss his eye, a mistake he took advantage of. Why did fighting seem so natural to him, anyway? Target locked and his hand wielding a brilliant flame orb, he shot out a blast of energy so powerful it sent his opponent flying to the far end of the alley. Thrown back, but not burnt. But she was not to be beaten easily too. By a graceful somersault she landed on her feet, ready to strike back. However, the attack never arrived.

_Clang._ The tolling of the church bells resonated in her ears. Time's up.

It dawned on him that this was the first time in a long long while that he felt this way. He was thrilled to the bones. That, and also the fact that he needed more. "Admitting defeat?" he taunted, not quite contended.

"Shit…" she muttered, breathing slightly rugged. Alfredo would wash her mouth with soap if he heard her curse so ungracefully. Her opponent moved for another hit. Surely that made contact, but he saw no more of her.

Zilch.

It was as if her whole existence had been a joke and the only witnesses were the unconscious assholes bleeding on the hard concrete ground. The boy straightened, visibly disappointed at the brevity of their bout. This won't be the last, he repeated in his head. He shouted something, something she should take note. But the rustling of leaves and a wave of dirt answered back.

Well, screw that.

All excitement ebbed as suddenly as it came. One of her victims twitched, groaning pitifully. Xanxus scoffed and sent him back to darkness. He had no time for trash.

"F."

A vein popped in her temple. She couldn't fail, not when she did a fine-assed job on the targets. Not when-

"Covert ops, Mire," Alfredo said, laying his palms open and flinging his arms around in a serious fit of lecture mode, "are covert ops because you can't be _seen, _nor heard, sensed or much worse, owned. You got blasted off a wall, for Pete's sake!"

"I don't give a shizz about any Pete!" she complained. They walked along the alley at the opposite side of the rows of houses, the older guy frowning at the flop of his student and the student scowling because of the stingy rating. "No wonder you don't have a girlfriend," was all she could retort. He had a point anyway. This earned her another rant about her performance, with bits and pieces about her foul personality.

"_Xanxus… My name's Xanxus and you better not forget that!" _She stopped and looked around. Was the boy actually gonna chase her? It didn't seem so. Good thing the townspeople knew better than to poke their heads out and ask what was wrong. That deranged woman and his son weren't very popular in their area so to speak. Suffice to conclude, they wouldn't be surprised if the boy had wiped another thug's ass. The tutor made an annoyed "tch". Looking over at the girl, he saw her lips twitch in a wry smile. Xanxus. Ah, that name gave her guts a weird tingling feeling.

Speaking of weird…crap, he had flames. "Ah. Fredo!"

"Hn?"

She jogged over to catch up to him and tugged on his sleeve to gain support for a tiptoe, "That boy has the Flames of Rage." She set herself level on the ground again. "At least that's how it appeared to me…d'you think…you know…_that_ heir business."

He nudged his shades up. Interesting. "I'll tell the Ninth. Keep an eye on the kid." The young man stuffed his hand in the bag slung over his shoulder and pulled out…a phone. Her eyes glittered like diamonds. Back then, pagers were the thing. "Maybe if you don't screw up this time I'll reconsider for a D. Just maybe."

Mirella stuck out her tongue at him. "Whatever, teach. Gimme that wonderful baby," she cooed, tossing over the blade in exchange for the device. It was just that marvelous in her eyes.

Xanxus reached their battered home in the worst of moods. "Why're you back so early?" His mother took none of his tone and gleefully welcomed him. Nevertheless, none of this had any effect whatsoever. Even an embrace and the following announcement, so happily and proudly declared served no purpose to famish his displeasure. "They didn't do anything funny, did they?" The last time someone tried to forcefully haggle with her didn't end up so well.

"Oh no, of course not. Your father will finally be meeting us, dear. And I'm sure, no mistake about it…you're his son. The Vongola Ninth's son. Your Flames definitely… He will come to get you. Finally. Finally…" followed by a few intelligible words that did not matter to him. He inwardly sighed in contempt. This better be the real thing. The charade had already been accomplished over ten times. If doing so would get them money they'd be drowning in dough now. As if he had any hope at all.

"Stop it already, Ma. He doesn't exist."

"_Signora_, thanks for the-" Out came the girl from their kitchen. The very same one he met in the streets. With his clothes on. And his favorite bread? Stuffed in her mouth like an idiot. He'd never mistake her for anyone else.

"See? This girl is a Vongola and she told me so. Isn't that right, miss?" She stood there, feeling the dough soften in her mouth. Damn, she never told the woman anything like that!

Xanxus stared. Okay, apparently she wasn't kidding. Now what? He face palmed before shaking his head in disbelief. "You've got to be _fucking _kidding me." His flames flared out of his hand. "Whatever. Let's finish this." His mother gasped. That won't do at all! "OI!"

"I know, right. But apparently this isn't the time." At that exact moment (and to her relief) the mobile device Alfredo gave her rang loud. She gobbled up the food and flipped the phone open. _My, what a splendid creation! _"About time, you know."

_"Sorry, kid. Seems the Young Lion Advisor beat us to it. They're on their way."_

"Fine. Do I stay here or what?"

_"I suggest you scram."_

He can't believe he was being ignored. The fire in his hands shone intensely, only to have his mother attempt to forcefully bring it down. "Stop it, Xanxus!"

"Let go, Ma. I've got it!" he said, still attempting to wring himself free.

"Got it. Bye._" Click. _"Thank you for the hospitality, madame. It seems the Don will be seeing you after all."

The mother clapped her hands in delight, releasing Xanxus almost too quickly. "Was that the Ninth? That was him…I'm sure of it. He'll be so happy to see our son…" Without waiting for an answer, she scampered off to find something decent for the two of them to wear.

Mirella was at loss. "Not really…" her answer trailed off. Not to be rude or anything but something has got to be loose in that woman's head. Now she was left alone in the living room with Xanxus, who turned on her and glared.

"So, what? Am I that geezer's son or is this another dud?"

The girl frowned. And raced past him straight to the open window.

Knocks rapped on the door.

He already had a bad feeling about this. "Ma!"

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A/N: R&R! :)


	3. Proposition

DISCLAIMER: KHR = mot mine

Okay, don't be confused. The chapters aren't arranged in specific chronology because that's how it formed in my head and I like it. But it's not as if it'll be all jumbled up and stuff the whole time. Just a few "jumps" every once in a while.

This one happens immediately after the rescue. Remember, they decided to proceed with it because being a Vongola was almost an automatic admittance to heir candidacy. And they wanted to seize that chance, no matter how large or small it was. So...

Start reading!

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Chapter 3: Proposition

Sure she her appearance wasn't very Italian, or specifically, Sicilian, but who cares? Everything else about her screamed legit Cosa Nostra. She's a freaking descendant of the fork-wielding mofo Vongola boss! Maybe she already knew how to fight. That ought to be enough to convince the bosses of the alliance. Only one thing remained; one of the most crucial factor of decision – the attribute of her flames, that it, if she even has 'em.

It was only before entering the room that she understood (okay, Alfredo spitefully told her an hour back) why she was treated so well and pampered like a princess the whole time. They actually thought she could be the next boss.

Sheesh. Yes, she had the flames. But no, they weren't orange, they were freaking purple.

He was wrong to doubt his intuition. She cannot be the heir. But saving her he deemed right. The aging don fixed his gaze at the faint flame lit atop her index finger. It was almost translucent and trembled delicately at the slightest movement of the air. He had never seen such weak flame. Something wasn't right.

"We are one family, child, no matter how distantly related we may be. There is no need for pretensions." At this, the girl looked at him slightly annoyed and met the steely gaze that seldom aptly described the Ninth's stare. "Show me your resolve, Mirella."

For a moment, she merely continued to stare back, light blues bordered by lilac boring holes onto the old man's brown orbs. Then as sudden as gunshot, the flickering excuse for a fire burst forth and engulfed her hand, shooting a foot up before settling down as a dark, barely contained tongue of purple flame. "Is this enough, Vongola Nono?" He nodded, noting the stark contrast of emotion in her eyes now. That was all he needed to see.

"A wise choice." He placed his elbow on the hard wooden surface, and rested his chin on his knuckles. At first glance, one would never think Don Timoteo to be what he was; a kindly old man or a doting grandfather maybe, but not the boss of the number one mafia family in the entire world. But seeing the glint in his eyes against the backdrop of the darkening sky outside, she understood somehow why he was _boss._

"I have a proposition, child." Her eyes widened upon comprehending the old man's words, biting her lips to prevent any word from breaking off from her desire not to be read. His parting words etched in her mind, playing repetitively like a broken record.

_I will defy my intuition and trust you. Prove me wrong._

That definitely didn't feel right. What, now they were playing with her too? Her fists clenched at the thought but remained silent. _Damn you all._

"Ah, and be patient with Fredo, he's just…"

Play with fire and you will be burned, so they said. All she wanted was to be freed from the bars of that family, and now that she was out, had she signed up for a worse hell? "You may now leave."

And she did.

"Alfredo." His mouth twitched at the sound of his name. Why was he stuck babysitting that girl again? It wasn't like she was _that _important…right? "Alfredo, the Ninth's calling you in." If anything, he swore the girl had some maturity issues. No sane eight year old kid can act like that. Again, he wasn't sure. He shot a glare at her. "This better be legit, brat."

She shrugged and left him at his post. "I'll be waiting at the lounge." He resisted the urge to chuck something, anything in her direction. He felt so pissed, so frustrated even though she hadn't done anything at all.

"Fredo, are you there?" He almost tripped on the carpet in his haste to respond.

The Ninth gestured for the young man to sit on the chair previously occupied by the girl. "A strong determination cannot be fully manifested without the means to express it," he said, receiving a brief puzzled look from Alfredo. "Too bad she did not pass the test."

Something clicked in his head. But stopped abruptly. Jumping to conclusions wouldn't do him any good, instead he huffed and raised his hands in defeat. "Okay, I'm listening. Fire away, Ninth."

"Those were quite wild flames I saw. Very, very irate flames."

"Leave it to me, sir," he said, preparing to stand.

"Ah, no. I did not mean stifling it."

He sat back. "Then-"

"If left uncontrolled, imagine how destructive the explosion would be once detonated. I trust you with that responsibility." The gears in his head went full throttle. He had just graduated from bodyguard to tutor, if he heard correctly.

"So," he put one hand palm down on the majestic table, smirk as wide as the Milky Way, "what's the lesson plan, Ninth?"

"I want you to teach her how to fight properly." He nodded in affirmation. Almost too eagerly it was suspicious. "And while at it, show her the ways of the Cosa Nostra. Train her how to deal our world."

"Why the need for that? She isn't gonna be the successor, right?" he suddenly blurted out, face wiped clean of any smirk. Except the Ninth's mother who was Vongola Ottavo and a few others including his own mom, women connected to the mafia were usually restricted as bargaining chips or stayed out the zone of danger completely. _No offense, but this isn't exactly their world._

"Boy, I'm saying I know potential when I see it," the old man replied sharply. "Six months. By then, I expect positive result."

"Bet on it, sir," he said, enthusiasm not matching his words. He stood up and walked to the door. Gods, he felt so resigned. Upon making sure the young man had his back on him, the Don's expression softened. If there was something in common about them, it was a terrible sense of loss and regret over his son's passing.

He had already turned the knob when out of sync with his expectations, he heard the words he yearned to hear the most. It may have been from a different mouth, but almost, _almost, _he could hear his deceased friend scold him with that overrated lecture. "_'You've always been a sitting duck for blaming yourself. Get over it.'_" He turned and looked over at the Vongola Ninth. Never had he seen him so imposing, as if he challenged him on his next move. He exited the room in utmost composure. He having done so well over the past few weeks would be laid to waste if he broke down now. His shoulders were shaking as he continued walking down the hall, feeling as if his body wasn't his. And he forgot that there was one person who waited by him in the lounge. He was already halfway out the lawn when his companion caught up to him.

"Alfredo." Like a zap of electricity activating his control over his head, he jolted to reality. He felt numb. But somehow the girl calling his name wasn't making him feel bad.

"Mirella…" he absentmindedly replied. "Half a year…we've got half a year…" She swore she heard a sniff. He mentally cursed as he felt his eyes sting with tears. How wrong was he to think he had his mushiness in check.

Convincing herself that she just felt sorry for the guy, she placed her hand on his arm and softly muttered an apology, further aggravating what has been sealed deep down in his chest. She didn't know what compelled her to say it, but she did anyway. "Don't hold back, teach." No replies, no words exchanged between them as he completely broke down and cried.

Six months after, Don Timoteo adopted a son and invited the girl to live in the Vongola Manor.

Alfredo made sure by then his protégé was ready to kick serious ass. Especially that conceited son of the Ninth.

* * *

Yep, six months and the little missy's already off killing people. *Sniff* Dear Fredo must be proud.

There you go. Thanks for those who followed and favorite-d this fic (though I'd be _immensely _fired up to make more if you told me what you think)!


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